Construction Literary Magazine

Fall 2019


Photograph via Flickr by Alanah Wildcat

In bed & within the quiet in you,
I’m selfishly contemplating
my own sobriety.

Your curls stick to me
like a beer bottle label, damp
& warm & flowered.

Your legs as angel’s wings,
your fingers like melted
autumn—I’m tracking
soot in a holy place.

It is not intentional, my dear,
the way my graces fall
like drunk starfish when I
see a graveyard unvisited.
The dead are not undeserving
of the truth.

I have a genetic predisposition to loss.

I remember how a water-chaser
tastes after vodka. The burn

but the blackout is darker.
I know what an air-raid
tastes like.